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Fifteen years ago…

“Now remember, you see anything you know you shouldn’t be seeing, you call me and I’ll come get you no matter what, Smoochie.”

“Daddy, Bishop wouldn’t do anything to harm his son.”

“That nigga fucked a child, he will do anything.”

“I was sixteen–”

“When you got pregnant. You was twelve when he started sniffing around yo fast ass.”

Rahshad yawned and fiddled with his backpack straps. His grandfather and mother had been arguing like this for months now. He’d sit at his door late at night when they thought he was asleep and listen to them argue all night about Rahshad’s father, and if he should be allowed to see him.

Rahshad didn’t even know he had a father. His grandfather was the only man in his life, and he and his grandmother were his best friends. He loved watching crazy daytime shows with them when he stayed home from school. He loved going fishing with his grandfather, and helping his grandmother around the house and sitting with her in church almost every Wednesday and Sunday night.

And they spoiled him rotten. As soon as he was old enough, they started putting him in all sorts of STEM summer camps. Even after his grandfather got hurt on the job and their income decreased dramatically, he still was able to buy Rahshad a used laptop and a couple programs so he could keep learning to code.

They didn’t have a lot, but they had each other, and that was enough for Rahshad.

Until he learned he did have a father. A father that wanted to see him.

His mother was all for it. His grandparents were vehemently against it. So every night for months they argued, until last week, when his mother came into his room and told him he’d be spending weekends with his father.

Last night, he packed his backpack with some clothes, his laptop and charger, his grandfather’s old cell phone, and his glasses case. His mother retwisted his locs and put them in a braided style for the first time, since they were finally long enough for that. They still didn’t touch his shoulders, but he was excited. His dad wanted him. Maybe his parents can get back together, and his mother could be happy again. Maybe she was sad because he’d been away, from what he gathered in the arguments he heard.

The trip was mercifully quick, and soon his grandfather was pulling up to a tall brown building. There were others in the background, but when he made eye contact with the tall man a few feet away from the car, that’s all he could look at.

Rahshad looked just like him. His father.

The man walked up to the car and went to open Rahshad’s door, but his grandfather locked it at the last minute.

“Smoochie, you call me and I’ll come get you, okay? You don’t have to be here.”

Rahshad looked back at his grandfather. He and his grandmother were the only ones who called him Smoochie. He acted like he didn't like it in public, but in private, it always warmed his heart.

He nodded and smiled.

“I know, Granddad.”

His grandfather grunted and unlocked the doors, letting Rahshad open the door and get out.

“Waddup?”

his father said. He took Rahshad’s backpack and swung it over his shoulder before closing the car door behind him.

“Take care of our baby,”

his mother said through the cracked window.

“I got him.”

Rahshad couldn’t stop staring at his father. He was big like the guy from Friday After Next, and tall, and looked just like Method Man, with dark caramel skin, and thick dark hair that he wore in braids.

“You don’t gotta call me Dad or Pops. Bishop is cool while we get to know each other.”

Rahshad tried to play it cool, even though on the inside, he was close to panicking.

“I-I can call you Pops,”

he said lowly. He knew his father heard him though, because he smirked at him and gestured for him to follow into the building.

“Now, I know your granddad don’t fuck with me, but when you’re here I’m in charge, aight? And what goes on over here you can’t be going back telling him or even ya moms. Not if you wanna keep coming over here.”

The smell of bleach assaulted Rahshad’s nose as they stepped onto the elevator. He swallowed and nodded, watching the numbers climb as they ascended. “Aight.”

He didn’t like lying to his grandparents, but it wasn’t like he’d never done it. His grandfather didn’t know he’d been getting bullied badly at the start of the school year until he finally beat Charles Watson’s ass, who broke his third pair of glasses. His grandmother didn’t know that he did in fact smoke weed with the other church kids that time he came in smelling like it, instead of just being around them.

And they definitely didn’t know he hacked into his school’s database and changed Mondays’ lunch menu to pizza.

So, he could keep a secret for his father. Besides, how bad could it be?

They got off the elevator at the top floor and made their way down the long hallway. There were older boys talking, all of them wearing either dark green pants or a dark green shirt. All of them having a gun tucked.

Rahshad had never seen a gun in real life before. He stayed close to his father, and rushed inside the door he opened.

Only to freeze again. There were more than a dozen white bags on the coffee table. Even more on the kitchen table further in the apartment. There were more guys on the couch, and a short woman standing at the table, moving the white bags into a duffel. She looked up at the door opening, and her eyes softened when she and Rahshad locked eyes.

Bishop ushered him into the hallway and then into a small bedroom. The curtains blocked out most of the sunlight, making it feel like it was nighttime instead of the morning.

On one wall was a set of bunk beds. On the other side was a dresser with a tv on top, next to a gaming console. It was a bare room, much like the room Rahshad had at his grandparents’ house, except he had a desk, too.

Bishop flicked the light switch and Rahshad heard a groan coming from the bottom bunk.

“C’mon, Casey. Get up.”

Feet Rahshad didn’t notice before began to move, and a boy a little older than he was stood up to face them. He was tall, brown like them, and even though the scowl cast shadows over his eyes, they didn’t look dark.

The boy ran his hand over his waves and locked eyes with Rahshad.

“Don’t call me that shit.”

Rahshad’s eyes stretched. He knew cursing in front of any adult meant getting his mouth washed with soap, and Bishop didn’t look like he played about disrespect. Who was this kid? He had a cut on his cheek, and an intricate design of swirls and stars etched into his Caesar. He had on green like the other men Rahshad saw, a dark green t-shirt and light grey sweats.

“Rahshad, this is Casey, your big brother. He goes by Set, though, and’ll prolly beat yo ass if you call him anything but that,”

Bishop chuckled like his son didn’t just curse at him.

“He’s with you today. Tiny and I got some shit to handle in Hudsonville. We’ll be back tomorrow night.”

Rahshad turned so fast he got dizzy. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked up at his father.

“You’re leaving?”

Bishop placed his bag on the floor and squeezed Rahshad’s shoulder.

“I got a lot of business to handle, but also, I need you and Set to build a bond. In this world all you gone have is your brother, and unfortunately, you’re eleven years late on building that bond you gone need. Big brothers lead, little brothers watch their big brothers’ back. I had a big brother, your Uncle Boog, and we wasn’t as close as we should have been, and that got me sent up top and him dead. Y’all gone be better than us, and that starts now.”

Bishop left them together, closing the door behind him.

“That nigga full of shit. Yo mama was finna put him on child support so he decided to apply for joint custody instead. You gone learn, Bishop is for himself.”

Rahshad turned around and glared at his new brother. Set slid on his slip on Vans and tied a durag around his head. He slipped two phones into his pockets and shouldered past Rahshad.

“C’mon nigga.”

Rahshad sighed and followed Set out of the apartment, then the building. It was a typical Southern California winter morning, meaning it was warm with a slight breeze that appeared when it wanted to.

There were a dozen boys crowded by an illegally parked car in front of the building. One of the older boys, light as hell with wild black curls, looked at the approaching Set and Rahshad and grinned. He tapped another boy, and they left the group to meet them closer to the curb.

“This him?”

the boy said, looking Rahshad up and down.

“Damn he look just like Unc.”

“This Peanut and Turk. Peanut my cousin. Turk my ace. You can’t find me, you find them, aight?”

Rahshad nodded and waved, immediately feeling dumb after. Especially when Turk and Peanut snort.

“Nigga green as fuck,”

Turk said.

Rahshad tuned them out though, when he saw some boys by the basketball courts shoving a smaller boy. The smaller boy looked Rahshad’s age, and reminded him of how he was before he stood up to his bullies.

He tapped Set on his shoulder before pointing to the boy.

“Why are they bothering him?”

Set looked to where Rahshad was pointing and waved him off.

“That’s just Sincere. Fuck that nigga.”

Rahshad cut his eyes to his brother. Other boys began to trickle over from the car, and soon, they surrounded Set, and Rahshad was on the outside of the circle.

Closer to the boy Sincere.

His feet moved without his permission toward the courts. Sincere was surrounded, being pushed from boy to boy as others laughed.

Rahshad heard Set call after him but he didn’t look back. He just walked faster until he got to one of the boys. With both hands, he pushed him with all his strength.

“Leave him alone!”

“The fuck? Who is you nigga?”

one of the other boys said, but Rahshad didn’t answer. He just hooked his right arm and smashed his closed fist into his cheek.

The other kids gasped and oohed as he went down, knocked out cold.

But Rahshad knew not to stop fighting. Not until they were all down. So he started socking and punching whoever he saw. The boy Sincere was frozen, but Rahshad wasn’t. He let all the anger and rage he usually kept in check flow through him. Anger and rage that mixed with despair and anguish, that he never really understood or had a reason for until recently. His life wasn’t bad. His mother loved him. Grandparents adored him. He had plenty of friends and his teachers liked him. So the anger and rage was muted, dormant, something in the recesses of his mind.

But then he started sixth grade, and Charles Watson decided he would torment him relentlessly. In a few short months Rahshad began to have permanent crescents in his palms from fisting his hands. He began to have migraines, getting so bad he’d have to stay home. He began to start doing pushups late at night to get all the unchecked energy out of his body.

Granddad told him a man never solved his problems with their fists.

But Charles Watson didn’t leave Rahshad alone until he beat the shit out of him behind the convenience store around the corner from his school.

And after Charles was slumped on the floor, Rahshad felt more like himself than he did in a long time.

“Ay! Ay, chill!”

Arms locked Rahshad’s behind him and pulled him off the courts. When the haze cleared, he saw stormy gray eyes searching his own, with something passing through them.

“Shad. Chill, man,”

he muttered.

Rahshad stopped struggling. When his breathing turned normal, his face crumpled up and tears gathered in his eyes.

“I don’t like bullies,”

he whispered.

“Shit, you the fucking bully. You laid all them muthafuckas out, Baby Set,”

Turk said. A chorus of other boys murmured in agreement behind them, but Rahshad kept his eyes on Set, who pulled him into a hug.

“You good, bro.”

Set kept an arm around his neck as he turned him to face the courts. Other boys were picking up the niggas that were bullying Sincere, while he stood looking at Rahshad in awe, standing next to another young boy.

“This my brother, Shad. You fuck with him, you fucking with me.”

Set’s raspy voice didn't have to project across the courts for everyone to hear and feel him.

He turned them back toward the car parked on the curb.

“C’mon, y’all. Let’s take Shad to meet G-Pops.”

“Fasho. I think it’s still some breakfast too if you hungry, Shad. Then we can come back later and you can meet the fellas. Rico and Fredo got a playstation so we can play the game.”

Turk squeezed Rahshad’s shoulder and smirked at him before calling shotgun and raced Peanut to the car.

“You got heart, Shaddy Shad. I guess having a brother won’t be too bad,”

Set chuckled.

Rahshad sniffled and grinned.

“I guess, huh.”

Macy Davenport

Three months ago…

I have a problem with doing shit for the plot. If I get too bored, I do some spontaneous shit, and most of the time I end up in some mess. Then by the end, I fail upward. Doing shit for the plot is how I became an artist. It’s how I once hooked up with a magician with a split tongue.

And it’s how I ended up pregnant.

One night, I was bored, and got on this app that tells you what’s happening in the city. I ended up at this hotel that plays live music. That’s where I met Dan. He was handsome, older, with salt and pepper hair and a strong jaw. We drank, danced, and fell into bed together in his room. He was in Northupton on business frequently, and every time he was in town we met up. But noooo, it wasn’t just sex like I intended. He took me on dates, bought me gifts, and pressed me about meeting Mom. Told me loved me and all that other shit niggas do, too.

Then six months later, I’m thinking I have the stomach flu, and I’m actually six weeks pregnant. Mind you, I was told the chances of that happening are slim to none. So I’m already mourning the fat ass blunt I had rolled up that morning, and the new wine I bought, when this nigga Dan stops answering my calls.

Like I’m the type of bitch that can be ghosted.

So what do I do? I reverse image search his ass. And that’s when I find out Dan is Dr. Daniel Enoch, Chief of Medicine at West Kenton Memorial Hospital, and married for as long as I’ve been alive to some old lady who probably doesn't know good ole Dan likes a finger in his ass.

Being with child should have stopped me from doing anything rash, but I still don’t really think it’s registered, besides, like, not smoking and drinking. And, I’m not really being rash, I tell myself. I mean, I didn't just up and move to Kenton without a plan. I’m supposed to start at Uncle Raúl’s Kenton firm on Monday as Dal’s receptionist. She offered to let me stay with her, but I turned her down. She has the chance to really build something with that crazy boyfriend of hers, and I need to stand on my own two for once.

And she would have tried to talk me out of my plan.

I lean against the big body Mercedes in the employee parking lot of the hospital. He has a fake interview scheduled courtesy of myself, so I know he’ll be leaving out soon. The nerve of this senior citizen, thinking he can sweat me then ghost me when I actually need him. That nigga was crying when I was tryna keep shit casual. Now he thinks he’s finna skip out on his responsibilities as a man? Tuh!

Nah, I’m playing. I don’t need no bitch nigga who’s probably finna croak anyway around my baby. He told me he was in his forties, but that nigga is like, no bullshit, seventy. SEVENTY! Nigga older than my mama. I’m finna throw up just thinking about it.

But shit, that pole between his legs gotta be only in his thirties. I was bamboozled!

Finally, I see Dan walking toward me on his phone. He stops in his tracks when he notices me. And those eyes balloon behind his glasses when he notices what I got in my hand.

“I told you months ago this ain’t what you want. But you were soooo persistent. And I get it. I was a challenge for you.”

“What–”

“Let me finish!”

I screech. I see his ass looking around so I lift my arm and aim my shit right at him as I start walking toward him.

“See, you thought I ain’t wanna fuck witchu because I like playing hard to get. No, I ain’t wanna fuck witchu because I don’t have time to be doing all this. Now look at us. I’m having a baby, and you finna get hurt.”

I poke my lip out, lower my arm, and get one off in his leg.

Ladies, shooting below the waist is assault. Above the waist is attempted murder.

Dan cries out and drops beautifully onto the ground. I walk up on him and grin.

“I don’t think this is working out, Dan. We should go our separate ways.”

“You’re crazy!”

he grits through his teeth as he holds onto his bleeding leg.

“Oh, I’m fucking insane. I told you that, and you laughed me off. Now, every time it’s cold outside you’ll remember how you chased me while you were married, and you got a kid out there somewhere being raised by the bitch who shot you.”

I glance up and see hospital security coming my way. Damn. My little villain monologue fucked up my escape plan.

I look back down at Dan.

“If you press charges against me, my uncle is gonna fuck yo old ass up.”

The security snatch me up and start leading me to an approaching police cruiser. When we walk by Dan’s car, I jump up and kick his side mirror off, cackling like a hyena.

Fuck. I love a good plot.

Unfortunately the adrenaline wears off, and after Dal curses me clean out for shooting someone at the hospital, I’m in a mood like I always am when I think about how stagnant my life is. I wish I could say it’s because my brother’s dead and I miss him, or because before that he was in jail for life, or before that I didn't know my daddy because he died when I was a baby, but something tells me even if my daddy was alive, and Mo was, too, and never got hit with that charge, I’d still be floundering.

I’m not made for the twenty-first century.

I’m made to be sitting somewhere, making pretty lyrics and painting the countryside. Or maybe an artisan, collecting gold Mansa Musa gave to my village while he made his pilgrimage to Mecca.

I’m not made to work a real job, or pay bills, or even date. And I think that’s why I have such a hard time with all of that.

I certainly don’t think I’m made to be a mother. It was almost a relief when my doctor told me my PCOS basically killed my chances of having kids. I mean, I was sad, what woman wouldn’t be? But it’s not like I ever really wanted one to begin with. When it came to these niggas, my motto comes from the great Wiz Khalifa: Ion love ‘em, Ion chase ‘em, I duck ‘em. These niggas can’t handle a real bitch like me. I learned that in fifth grade when little Markus Jackson pushed me down after I told him I thought his brother Markeis was the finer twin. So yeah, I’ve had boyfriends. I prolly even loved one of them, but once it stops being fun, I’m gone.

Dal says it’s because I’m a sag with raging commitment issues.

I say it’s because no nigga is worth my sanity.

I don’t have time for a nigga to go crazy behind me. And I damn sure don’t have time to go all crazy behind him.

I mean, I didn’t even love Dan. Just the simple fact he chased me, then lied to me, and left me high, dry, and hormonal, I shot his ass in the leg. Now imagine if I actually let my guard down and he did that.

I prolly would have smoked him right then and there.

And shit, the jury’s still out about that. Because I’m still debating on if I should call Uncle Junior and tell him that old geezer fucked with his favorite goddaughter.

Then, being pregnant is opening all these possibilities I shut off. If I didn’t have PCOS, I would have been calling the clinic for my one phone call. But shit, will I ever get this chance again? I don’t need Dan. I have a support system, money, and I can find a stepdaddy no problem. But his old ass sperm could fuck up my DNA.

Could I really get rid of it knowing I may not get another chance?

Shit, do I even wanna be someone’s mom?

I still don’t be remembering to feed myself sometimes. Denver usually takes care of me when I babysit him.

Still… babies are a gift and all that. I could paint a whole series on maternity for my next showing.

Fuck it. I guess I can keep this old nigga’s baby. For the plot and all.

Hold the stepdaddy though, maybe even indefinitely.

“Davenport! Let’s go,”

the officer announces, and I stand up, rubbing my butt that hurts because of that hard ass seat.

He leads me to the front of the station, where my bestie-in-law is waiting and scowling at me. I can’t help but beam at him, which makes his own scowl deepen.

“Peanuthead. What a pleasant surprise,” I coo.

He turns without replying but I know it’s ‘cause of where we are. I’ll get an earful once we’re in the car.

The door isn’t even closed before he starts.

“Now why the FUCK are you shooting muthafuckas at the hospital, Dub?! Got Choc smoking all my good weed and shit.”

He skirts out the parking lot and zooms toward what I’m guessing is his house.

I shrug.

“Nigga played with me so I shot his ass.”

Peanuthead sighs.

“Bro, you finna be a mom. You can’t be nutting up like that just ‘cause a nigga played with you. You gotta tone that shit down, especially with my niece or nephew still baking. Besides, you only been here a week. What nigga you found that fast?”

Dan’s so fucking embarrassing I don’t even wanna acknowledge him, but one thing about Peanuthead is he doesn’t leave any stone unturned, so I might as well be honest now.

“It was my baby daddy. But you’re right. I’ma tone it down. I broke up with him and well, you know… so I won’t see him and have a reason to light his ass up again. And he won’t be pressing charges, so it’s gravy.”

Peanuthead just shakes that rock head of his.

“You a fucking fool. Now I see why Choc be dealing with me. She had practice with yo ass.”

We both cackle since he’s right. Dal and I are similar, but she’s always been way more responsible and at least tries to keep her temper in check. Not me though. Granted, I don’t bother nobody, but it don’t take much to get me there.

“You know that hotel shit is dead, right? I’m supposed to drop you off at Dal’s then go get yo shit, so if you got anything embarrassing out let me know now.”

I shove his dumb ass.

“Fuck you… I know. Just, let Dal lay eyes on me and we can go get my shit. Contrary to popular belief, I do think before I act sometimes. I figured Ima need a chaperone.”

“Yeah, yo ass is insane. Reminds me of my young bulls. But shit, you said you shot ya baby dad. I know you hardbody, but you bringing life into the world. It’ll be cool to do that surrounded by family. And maybe seeing you blow up with child might light a fire under Choc.”

I roll my eyes.

“Denver is eleven, Peanuthead. And Lil Mama is four. She got me by two, now. We not raising our kids together.”

“Sheeeit,”

this nigga says as we pull up to Dal’s crib. He looks over and smirks.

“Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

Rahsha.

“Shotta”

Washington